Rovan answered the unknown call with a dry throat.

He had stopped pretending unknown numbers were normal. Every time one appeared now, his first thought was not curiosity but damage. He stepped away from his desk, moved into the narrow records corridor, and looked once behind him before speaking.

"Yes?"

"You have news," the caller said.

Rovan closed his eyes for half a second.

It was him.

"They are asking questions," Rovan said quickly. "The international people from World Zone are not only asking in the underworld now. They are circling the police side too."

"What questions?"

"The forest road shooting. Maren Voss. Who received the first information. Who moved the police response. Who wrote the first report." Rovan’s voice dropped further. "They are trying to see if police were used."

The line stayed quiet.

Rovan hated that quiet.

"I am telling you because if they reach the wrong file, I will be dragged in," he said. "Tell me what to do."

"Good," the caller said.

Rovan blinked. "Good?"

"That means they are still looking for a direction."

Rovan did not like the way he said it. "What do you want me to do?"

"Give them one."

"What direction?"

"George."

Rovan almost forgot to keep his voice low. "George?"

His shout echoed against the shelves. He bit it down and looked toward the corridor entrance.

"Are you insane?" he whispered. "Do you know who George is?"

"I know he threw you away."

Rovan’s face tightened.

"He will not save you," the caller continued. "He will not even open his gate for you unless you arrive with official papers and a clean reason. You already tried."

Rovan’s hand tightened around the phone.

"That does not mean I can put World Zone on him," he said. "If George finds out, he will bury me before they do."

"If World Zone keeps digging, they may bury you first. Choose which danger gives you a chance to move."

Rovan leaned against the shelf.

He had thought about going to World Zone. Not openly. Not like a fool. But the thought had crossed his mind after the street source warned him. If he could tell them he had been pressured, maybe they would use him instead of killing him.

Then he had imagined their reaction if they learned he had helped shape the Maren case.

That plan had died quickly.

"Listen carefully," the caller said. "You do not need to prove everything. You only need to make George look like the most reasonable path. He has money, police contacts, men like Eric, and the kind of reach that makes a foreign group cautious."

Rovan said nothing.

"Make them believe George did not want World Zone entering this province. Make them believe Maren’s death was a local warning from a man who controls Rust Gate and more than he shows."

"How?" Rovan asked.

The caller’s voice turned colder. "You are the police officer. I will not do your work for you."

"You cannot just say that and cut me loose."

"I can."

Rovan’s face went pale with anger and fear.

"If you want to live," the caller said, "make the direction believable."

The line cut.

Adam lowered the phone on his side and looked at the chips spread across the table. He had given Rovan only the direction, not the steps. That was deliberate. If he explained every move, the police officer would learn too much about how he thought. Adam did not have the time or safety for that. He could only push Rovan toward George and hope fear would make him creative.

For a moment, Rovan stood in the records corridor with the phone still against his ear.

"Damn you," he whispered.

Then he lowered the phone and started thinking like a dirty officer instead of a frightened one.

He could not walk to World Zone. He could not send an official report. He could not leave his own name near the rumor. That meant the direction had to travel through people who already sold words for money.

Rovan began with an old station clerk who owed him favors. He did not tell the clerk to lie. He only asked him to mention, if anyone came asking again, that a few old files connected George’s transport men to routes near Rust Gate territory. That was true enough to sound safe and vague enough to grow.

Then he called the gun broker behind the closed warehouse.

The man answered with suspicion. "Officer, I told you not to ask too loudly."

"I am not asking," Rovan said. "I am warning you. If outsiders ask who has enough reach to move police timing and road information, do not look at small gangs. Look at George."

The broker went silent.

Rovan continued, "I am not saying he did it. I am saying men who ignore his network usually regret it."

"Why tell me?"

"Because if World Zone starts blaming street men, everyone gets searched. If they look higher, people like you breathe longer."

That was the kind of logic a street source understood.

After that, Rovan used a third line. A constable who drank too much at the wrong places received an old patrol note with George’s company name circled, not as evidence but as a question. By evening, the question had already moved from one mouth to another.

No one said Rovan had started it.

That was the only part that mattered.

In the World Zone hotel suite, the old man listened while Idris gave the update.

"The police side is not clean," Idris said. "That much is clear. But the new direction is interesting."

Sella placed a thin file on the table.

"George Malani," she said. "Owner of Malani Company. Public business face, private contacts, old links to transport routes, and several police names around him. Eric."

The old man looked at the file.

"And the forest road?"

Idris answered, "The rumor says George had the reach to shape the police timing and push the hit through Rust Gate’s route. Some sources think he controls Tobin’s rise from behind."

The old man’s eyes narrowed.

"The lead points toward George as the larger local hand," Sella said.

The old man leaned back slowly.

For the first time that day, his expression changed.

"Then perhaps the hidden organization finally has a face," he said.